


Love, Not Bombs

by ghostyouknow



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostyouknow/pseuds/ghostyouknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gen is a superhero. Misha is a journalist. It goes pretty much how you'd expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, Not Bombs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StripySock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/gifts).



“I swear you do this on purpose.” Gen crossed her arms and stared down at Misha, who looked calm and unapologetic, never mind that he was tied to a chair with a bomb strapped to his chest.

Said bomb included a large digital timer, complete with helpful countdown. Apparently, Gen had a minute until Otter Girl's favorite journalist was blown to smithereens. She should be used to this by now. Gen's secret life as a vigilante tended to get her loved ones in trouble.

Or worse.

Gen didn't like thinking about the worse.

Anyway, no matter how often she saw her friends/lovers/favorite uncles tied to bombs or dangling off rooftops, Gen couldn't rid herself of an initial frission of fear: a sharp, panicked stab of _Oh, God, no_ and _please don't die I couldn't live with myself not again_.

Misha raised his eyebrows, all wide-eyed innocence. “You think I went out of my way to get myself kidnapped and strapped to a bomb? There are easier ways to get your attention. You might remember a few from last night, even.”

Gen shrugged. “Nothing's coming to mind. Maybe it wasn't as special as you thought.”

They were supposed to meet for dinner, for their two-year anniversary. Gen had been forced to cancel, on account of getting stuck with an armed robbery. She'd arrived home to find Misha with two glasses of wine and a Scrabble board, like that had been the plan all along. They hadn't had sex. 

The banter, the innuendo … they were a tactic. Of sorts. It was well-known that Otter Girl and Misha Collins, senior reporter, kept up a brash flirtation, as well as a symbiotic working relationship. The gossip columns wondered how his unassuming girlfriend, the homely Genevieve Cortese, kept from throttling him.  
  
“Keep me from splattering all over this fine skyscraper, and I'll remind you. Several times over.” Misha grinned large enough to make his nose crinkle, but Gen knew him well enough to see how carefully he held himself so as not to jostle the bomb. C-4 wouldn't go off without a detonator, but she couldn't blame him for being cautious.  
  
The countdown reached forty-five seconds. Gen sighed and bent down, examining the wires looped around the timer clipped to Misha's midsection.

Her heart nearly froze. Or maybe that was her lungs. Or maybe all her organs were seizing operations in tandem, because while Gen wasn't an expert with explosives, she'd had a whole lot of hands-on experience, and she'd never seen anything wired quite like this.

She grit her teeth, because Misha couldn't see her nerves. Not if they were going to make it through. “What the fuck is going on with this thing?”  
  
Misha smile went a little strained. He was too perceptive, the damn bastard. He kept his tone light. “Amateur construction, I know. I told Black Death Terror that he should've taken a few more classes in making things go boom before trying to make it as a supervillain—”  
  
“Yeah? How'd he take that?”

“Judging from the punch I received to the face, he has problems taking constructive criticism. What do you think, Otter Girl? Is my modeling career done-for?”  
  
Gen forced up a smile. “Nah, dude. You're still pretty.”

Black Death Terror—who was now unconscious and in police custody, thank you very much—had amassed so many wires that Gen could barely tell what went where. Which wire would she need to cut, to disconnect the detonator? The red or blue? The magenta or periwinkle or chartreuse? The one that had a stripe?

This … this wasn't a warning. Black Death Terror really meant to kill Misha, along with every other non-invincible person within three miles.  
  
Gen bit her lip and avoided looking at Misha, because she couldn't let him see any hesitation or doubt. He needed to believe that he'd survive this, like he'd survived everything else Gen's vigilantism had thrown at him. They both did. She sometimes wondered what her life would've been like, if she'd met Misha first.  
  
At thirty seconds, the timer started beeping. Dammit.  
  
Misha's breath hitched. His chest rose and fell. Hard. It was the most emotion Gen had ever seen from him in the field.  
  
They both stilled. The bomb beeped on.  
  
Gen spoke, “Did you see him put it together?”  
  
“I was unconscious for most of it.”  
  
“Dammit, Misha. Concussions are bad for you. You _know_ that.” It wasn't his fault, obviously. But Black Death Terror wasn't here for Gen to pummel, and she wanted, needed, to beat the crap out of _someone_. What was Misha even _doing_? He was dumb and weak and human, and so _foolish_. Hadn't she warned him a million times over? Hadn't she told him how they would end?  
  
“It's times like these,” Misha said, almost quietly, “that show me how much you care.”  
  
That stung. Gen busied herself with the bomb. Well, she busied herself staring at it and trying to figure out why Black Death Terror was so into French braids.  
  
“I wasn't unconscious because I was concussed,” Misha continued. “You'll be relieved to hear that I was merely drugged.”  
  
Gen had ten seconds before he _died_ and she couldn't tell which wire would disconnect the detonator, the rose or the puce or the muted pink—  
  
Make that five seconds. Four, three—  
  
“Gen,” Misha said. “I love you.”  
  
 _Damn him._  
  
Just like that, Gen zeroed in on the correct wire, on its path. She plucked out the puce, and the timer stopped. She let out a long breath, then stood, fury and fear pounding in her temples as she untied the ropes binding Misha's hands to the chair. She didn't say a word. She _couldn't_.  
  
Misha massaged his wrists, and Gen still couldn't stand to look at him.

He slowly rose to his feet, looking slightly unsteady. Because Gen needed to deal with him going into shock right now. “Ge—I mean, uh, Otter Girl—”  
  
“Don't you ever say that again. Not to _me_.” Gen indicated the length of her costume.

They didn't ... he didn't ... it wasn't _fair_ for him to change their rules for these situations. They never acted like they were in danger; they bickered and snarked and told each other they were idiots. For Misha to say that, to _Genevieve_ , meant that—

It meant that Misha had thought he was going to die.

Which meant that Gen couldn't ignore that he really could've, and it would've been her fault. She should know by now that she couldn't have nice things, or even mouthy aggravating ones, so long as they came in squishy human packages.

Why were they doing this? Why would Misha even want to? Why did _Gen_? She knew what it would to her to lose someone else. She didn't know why she couldn't stop, with Misha or her nightly extracurriculars. She didn't know why had to be so damn broken.

Gen met Misha's steady, serious gaze. She could see a bruise forming on his left cheekbone. She sorta hated him.

Misha swallowed. Then his posture relaxed into something easy and indifferent. “I could really go for some Thai, unless you can't handle the spice. Whaddya say, Otter Girl? Are you finally going to let me show you a good time?”  
  
And just like that, they were on more familiar and much steadier ground, and Gen remembered the how and why of loving the idiot standing in front of her. He was _kind_. Wasn't he? He knew how to bolster her up, keep her going, even when she wanted to fall apart. Sometimes, he made that seem okay, too.

Gen couldn't help herself. She launched herself into Misha's arms and kissed him hard. It didn't even throw him. He just grabbed her shoulders and kissed back, because he was some kind of sick adrenaline junkie, as well as a journalist.

That wasn't true. It wasn't. Then again, why else would he stick with Gen?  
  
Misha pulled back first. They couldn't keep this up; not when a bomb squad was waiting for Gen's signal to come on in.

“We could order in?” Misha said, softly, in a tone that meant he was speaking only to Gen.  
  
“Sure,” Gen said. “I'll meet you at home.”  
  
###

 


End file.
